


We fuck till we come to conclusions

by RemainNameless



Series: Starts with "F", Ends with "U" [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Badwrong, Comeplay, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jock Straps, Locker Room, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scent Marking, Somnophilia, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "You hollow out my hungry eyes"</p><p>Now that Stiles has a plan, it's supposed to be different. He's supposed to feel like he's the one calling the shots, but Rafa gets rid of that notion. The only safe place he really has is Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We fuck till we come to conclusions

**Author's Note:**

> HOLLA. IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE OTHER PARTS, IT WILL HELP IF YOU DO. A LOT. VERY MUCH.  
> Anyway, for the rest of you, this chapter's got some ambiguous somnophilia (it's not super intense and it's ambiguous as to whether or not the sleeping party is actually asleep), self-victim-blamey stuff, references to possible child molestation, and implied/references to domestic violence. ALSO the consent is v dubious if you ignore the fact that one person is action so like heads up. Just so you know, yo.

Finstock says cross country is a good off-season sport to keep in shape for lacrosse, but Stiles is pretty sure it’s a punishment. For something horrible that he did in a past life. Or maybe a year ago.

He never misses a practice.

But it’s six-thirty in the morning and he’s with a bunch of other mostly-sleeping teenagers trying to stretch. Trying to pretend that corpse pose counts as a stretch, if only to catch an extra minute or two of shut-eye. There’s dew all over the field, and by the time they’ve worked up the energy for standing stretches, everyone’s got dew soaked into their pants and jerseys. Soon, it’ll be sweat and it’ll feel good in the cool morning air, but right now, it’s miserable. 

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Scott hisses, and Stiles snaps up because _that_ ’s out of character. He follows Scott’s line of sight around his knee to Rafa, where he’s talking to Finstock. 

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?” Stiles asks.

Scott shakes his head, mouth curled. “Nothing good,” he says. “He came over and bothered my mom last night, not long after you picked up your car. Tried to get her to go to dinner, then tried to get her to let him come in. We both made it pretty clear we don’t want to talk to him.” His eyes narrow. “He’s not here for me, though.” 

Stiles goes cold. “Isaac?” he asks, and Scott shakes his head.

“He wants to question you. Finstock doesn’t want to let you out of a run, though.” They both watch them talking, hands on each other’s shoulders for a quad stretch. “Shit, Finstock caved. You can handle him, though. Just don’t let him get to you about your dad.”

Finstock turns to them, blows his whistle sharply. “ _STILINSKI!_ _Get over here!_ ” he yells. 

Stiles rolls his eyes at Scott and jogs over, thankful that Rafa doesn’t look him over, doesn’t do anything suspicious.

“Agent _McCall_ here says he needs to ask you some questions,” Finstock says. “Sounds like it’s going to take a while, so I’m going to excuse you from running this morning and maybe you’ll take that as an incentive to not get arrested so you can one day make it to first line. Got it?”

“Got it, Coach,” Stiles says, giving him a little salute. 

“Good. Now get going. I’ve got teenagers to run into the ground,” Finstock tells him, waving a hand to dismiss him. He heads over to where everyone’s stretching, blows his whistle at them to get them up, start the run. Scott raises a hand to Stiles before he starts off. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Stiles says, turning to Rafa. “Are you taking me down to the station?”

“Where your dad can hold your hand? Not likely. Your _coach_ ,” he says, like it’s something gross to him, “kindly offered his office. Let’s go.” He watches the boys run off into the woods for a moment before heading towards the school, the locker rooms and athletic offices.

Stiles follows behind, about ten feet behind, enough that Rafa won’t try to make conversation. Or say something dirty. Because he’s _sure_ that Scott would be able to hear and that’s _not acceptable_. Rafa’s walking fast, though, and it’s good to put some distance between them and Scott, at the very least.

Rafa opens the door, looks back over his shoulder fo Stiles but doesn’t hold it open for him. His face looks sharp, and Stiles wonders if this _is_ for business. It very well might be. Really, he hopes so. 

They head down the hall a little fast, Rafa looking through the windows in the doors. 

And _that_ one would be Finstock’s office.

“Hey, that’s—” 

“I know,” Rafa tells him, heading past the janitorial closet to the locker room. He holds the door open this time and gives Stiles a look. “Get in.”

Stiles hesitates for a moment, if only so that the group of boys can run a little further out of range. By this point, considering the route they’re taking through the woods and the heavy door to the building, they’re probably safe. 

The door shuts behind them, another sound barrier, at the very least, and Rafa’s pressed against his back. His hands slip under Stiles’ jersey, over his stomach and hips. 

“This isn’t cool, you know,” Stiles tells him. “You can’t booty call me when I’m at school.”

“They’re gone,” Rafa says against the top of his head. “Don’t worry so much.”

He pulls Stiles’ shirt up, tugs it over his head. As he does it, he rolls his hips against the top of Stiles’ ass, and Stiles can feel that he’s getting hard, can feel his dick thickening up against him. Jesus, he’s almost as horny as Stiles is 24/7, which is really saying something.

Stiles’ shirt falls to the floor with a soft sound.

“Decided to give up pretending you don’t want this?” Rafa asks. 

“Just _tired_ ,” Stiles snaps, but Rafa’s warm and it feels good to lean into him, into the circle of his arms. He’s supposed to go along with it more, anyway, right? And he didn’t jerk off this morning, like he usually does when he doesn’t have practice, so when Rafa’s hands slide over him, his stomach lurches and drops down to his cock. 

One hand slides up Stiles’ chest to settle on his collarbone, loose around his neck. “You’ll be happier if you just let it go,” Rafa tells him. It’s soft, weirdly soft, and Stiles knows he has to act right now, for all he’s worth. Has to hope that it’ll be acting when it’s all said and done.

“I can’t,” he tells Rafa. “I don’t know how.” 

It’s mostly true, like the best lies are. It’s just the intent, the motives and the outcome, that aren’t true. And Rafa never has to know. 

Something hot and wet closes on the skin of his shoulder, and it takes a second for him to realize it’s Rafa’s _mouth_. He sucks, which makes Stiles’ knees shake, and his tongue flicks over Stiles’ skin. It’s fucking _good_ , good in a way he doesn’t understand all the way, but he tries to press back against Rafa’s cock even though the angle’s a little weird. He tries until Rafa _bites_ , makes his knees finally go out, and catches him. Holds him up. 

“Just like that,” Rafa says. “Easy now, kiddo.” 

Stiles shakes his head, puts his weight into his feet instead of Rafa’s body. “ _No_. I told you, we’re done. This isn’t happening anymore.”

“Are you sure?” Rafa asks as he reaches down beneath the waistband of Stiles’ track pants to cup his crotch. He’s pretty sure that his jockstrap can’t hide his boner, pretty fucking sure, going by the way Rafa squeezes him. 

“Sixteen, remember?” Stiles snaps. “I could probably get it up for Finstock if the wind was blowing right.”

“You let him fuck you?” It’s quiet, low and not-quite-threatening. 

“Not _even_.”

Rafa huffs through his nose. “Who, then? Who’ve you begged for it, huh?” His hand is moving in just the right way that Stiles’ hips are trying to get him grind against it without his permission. “You have to resort to boys? Ask your little teammates for a quick fuck in the showers? Or did you just get on your knees for them? They wouldn’t even be _surprised_ if they came back and found you with my cock in your ass, would they?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Stiles tells him. “You’re the only one I’ve ever done anything with.” 

At once, he realizes that it’s both the wrong and right thing to say. He can feel the way Rafa relaxes and curls around him, pleased, and settles both hands on his shoulders. Guides Stiles further into the room. He does it for the plan, that’s all. To gain Rafa’s trust with something that’ll look like unwavering devotion. 

He stops when his knees are about to hit the bench, and he’s redirected to the lockers. Rafa pushes down his track pants and they stop at his knees. It’s weird, feeling Rafa’s body fully clothed against his when he’s nearly naked. Weird in a way that makes his skin tingle at every point of contact. 

"Hands in front of you," Rafa tells him. "Bend over." It's a comfortable thing, doing what Rafa wants him to. That's disturbing in a lot of ways, but it’s not him, not really. It’s the act. That’s all. There’s no shame in it this way.

The elastic of his jockstrap snaps against his skin and there's a soft chuckle behind him.

Rafa’s hands spread him wide. They feel like hot stars on his skin.

“You clean?” Rafa asks before breathing over his hole. 

Stiles nods quickly and, not sure if Rafa can see it, says, “Yeah. Always shower in the morning.” He usually jerks off, too, fingers himself as best he can. 

“ _Good_ ,” Rafa says, and Stiles feels his breath from it a second before the first hot lick of Rafa’s tongue.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Stiles hisses. His bitten-nailed fingertips can’t get a purchase on the lockers in front of him and _fuckballs_ does that feel good. He knows Rafa’s done this before, but he was pretty out of it at the time, didn’t get to really process the fact that there’s a _tongue_ licking his ass. Pressing into him with just the tip, just enough to make him groan because it’s fucking _bizarre_ that it should feel this good. 

Rafa pulls back, rubs at Stiles’ hole with the pad of his thumb. “Your ass was made to be eaten out, you know that? Fucking _gorgeous_.” He goes back in again, holding Stiles open enough that he can _really_ get his tongue in, and Stiles just gives up. Just lets himself enjoy it, lets himself be shameless in it, moans and rocks back to get Rafa in deeper. 

Did he know before this _just how many_ nerve endings he had in his ass? Apparently not. Because it’s pretty fucking unreal. And Rafa gets a finger in there every now and then, sometimes two, sometimes hooks them inside his rim to spread him for his tongue and _fuck_. 

“Don’t stop,” Stiles breathes, forcing himself to keep his hands on the lockers in front of him. 

Rafa does, though, two fingers in him, and says, “If you come in that jockstrap, I’m going to use it to gag you. Understand?”

“Come _on_ , would you just let me—” A sharp, hot smack silences him. 

“You come on my cock,” Rafa tells him. There’s not really room for negotiation in his tone.

“Fine, then _put it in me_.”

Another smack, this one enough to make Stiles wince. “Is that how we ask for things, Stiles? Or do you want to try that again?”

Stiles sighs, head _thump_ ing against the lockers. “Please, Daddy, fuck me. Let me come.”

Rafa grabs his shoulder and turns him around. Stiles is expecting to be pushed somewhere, but instead, Rafa tilts his head back and kisses him hard. One hand slips down Stiles’ stomach, plays with the line of hair leading down to his cock. His mouth tastes weird and it’s a second before Stiles realizes _why_ , tries not to whimper at it as Rafa’s tongue slides against his, moving like it had in his ass. 

When he pulls away, he looks impossibly tall and _imposing_ in a way that makes Stiles’ stomach swim in want. 

“Bench,” Rafa tells him. “Hands and knees.”

As Stiles moves, he hears a bottle cap open and _seriously_? Does he _always_ have lube on him? Who even _does_ that?

Well, apparently the guy who pulls him out of cross country to fuck him, so maybe he shouldn’t really be complaining. Even though he never fucking has a condom. And Stiles doesn’t really expect him to, not even if he brings one himself. 

Rafa twists two wet fingers in him, spreads and pulls and curls until Stiles is trying to fuck his hand. The third is barely in him at all, and Stiles thinks it’s because Rafa likes him tight. Likes that it’s a little too much of a stretch for him. That should be a sick thing, and it _is_ , but Stiles craves it. If only because it’ll remind him that Rafa doesn’t _really_ care. Not enough to take care of him. 

He doesn’t really register the head of Rafa’s cock before it’s inside him, pushing a little noise out of his mouth with the ache. It always feels fucking _huge_ at first, and Stiles kind of hopes he’ll just drive on home already so he can get used to it faster, but Rafa has other plans. Apparently. Because he pulls out and pushes in, breaches him over and over, never going further than just the first little bit. It almost hurts, but it winds Stiles up. Makes his dick ache. Makes his muscles tense. 

It’s clear Rafa’s waiting for something, and it takes a second before Stiles realizes for what. 

“Daddy, need your cock.” Rafa pushes in again, stills. “Come on, _please_. Please just give it to me, just fuck me—” The words get lost in a loud moan when Rafa suddenly buries himself in Stiles’ ass. Feels like it’s splitting him open all the way to his rib cage, fucking _deep_ and _way_ too much, but Rafa’s hands grip his hips, move him on his cock, and it’s _good_. 

“That’s right, baby,” Rafa says, one of his hands coming up to pull Stiles’ head back by his hair. “Take it, just like that. You make the prettiest sounds.”

That’s enough to make him whine. It’s like being given permission makes him _want_ to make noise. It’s easier to just stop holding it back, stop pretending that he’s not fucking _addicted_ to the way Rafa’s cock feels, the way he fucks, the things he _says_. It’s good, it’s everything, and he needs _more_ , somehow. Just that final push over the edge—

And then Rafa stops. 

“ _Please please please_ ,” Stiles begs, “don’t stop. Daddy, _please_.” He sounds like a kid and that’s gross and kind of a turn on at the same time, and he’s not the only one who thinks that, given the way Rafa groans. The way his hand tightens in Stiles’ hair before letting go.

“If you want it, do it yourself,” Rafa tells him in a rough voice. “Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”

Stiles doesn’t even think, just grabs the edges of the bench and shoves his body back, gratified by the slap of skin on skin. It’s not _easy_ , not the way his body is used to moving, but he works himself up and down Rafa’s cock, staying close enough that there’s no worry of him slipping free. The bench is rocking on its legs, loud with the wet, dirty sound of Rafa moving in and out of him. 

His arms and shoulders get sore before long, so he lowers himself down onto his elbows. The new angle feels deeper, makes him groan as he fucks himself back as hard and fast as he can. 

Just as he’s starting to slow down because he can’t keep his own pace, Rafa hauls him back by his hips, moves over him so he can fuck the air out of Stiles’ lungs, basically. Every bit of his cock grinds inside Stiles in a way that has him making this choked-off noises, gripping the sides of the bench so hard the skin over his knuckles looks like it might split. 

“You gonna come for me, baby?” Rafa asks through panting breaths. “Gonna come on Daddy’s cock like a good boy?”

That’s it. He’s fucking _gone_ , moaning against the slats of the bench as it burns through him. Rafa pulls his hair, makes him whine, before slamming in deep, hard enough to move Stiles up the bench, and just rolling his hips inside. Stiles can feel his cock twitching through the last little clenches of his own orgasm. 

After a moment, Rafa’s hands relax their grip on his hips. He pulls back, pulls out, and spreads Stiles’ ass wide. Dips his fingers in and spreads wetness all around his hole. Paints him with it. Wipes his fingers off on Stiles’ ass cheek when he’s done. 

“You’re a fucking great way to start the day, kiddo,” Rafa says. Stiles doesn’t have to look back to know he’s grinning. But he does, or gets up at least. Rafa tucks himself away, wincing a little, and tucks his shirt in neatly before doing up his pants. He fixes his tie, runs a hand through his hair, and he actually looks like he didn’t just fuck a sixteen year old. 

Looking at him, Stiles wants to mess him up. Or something. He should do something, though. He’s supposed to be falling in love with Rafa or already there. He should do something other than stare.

So he does what he’d never be brave enough to do if he meant it: he buries his face in Rafa’s chest. After a second, Rafa’s arms come up around him and hold him close. 

They stand like that for a while, for too long. Long enough that Rafa sort of sways with him from side to side, cards fingers through his hair. It’s _nice_ , and that’s the problem.

When Stiles leans away, Rafa looks down at him. He takes Stiles’ face in his hands and kisses him too softly, lightly. 

“I can’t...not _here_ ,” Stiles says. “Somewhere else. Not here again.” His eyes burn, and it’s got to be because _this is his life_. It’s hitting him that this is something he’s doing, this is the lie he’ll have to keep telling, and the way out is far away.

“Alright,” Rafa says, nodding. “I can do that.” 

Stiles makes himself smile. “You should get going. Don’t talk to Scott. Not until you’ve had a shower, I can’t—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you around, kiddo.” He smoothes the wrinkles out of his shirt and heads out. Leaves Stiles there with his pants around his ankles.

The second he hears the door close, Stiles yanks his track pants up. Finds his shirt, pulls it over his head. He opens all the windows, turns on all the showers. Squirts whatever shampoo and soap he can find laying around in it. Finds the Clorox wipes Finstock’s always telling them to use and wipes down the bench, the lockers. 

He doesn’t have long before they come back and he can be found before he’s had a shower or two and changed, so he grabs his bag and hustles to his Jeep. 

His dad goes to work later on Monday mornings. Not until ten. Which means he’s home. He’ll question why Stiles isn’t just showering at school like he usually does. 

Realizing that, Stiles swears loudly at his steering wheel. 

So he needs somewhere else with a shower, somewhere Scott won’t go without telling him—

Derek. Fuck. 

He’s got a shower. He said he’d help. This probably isn’t what he meant, but Stiles has negative other options, so Derek’s it is. 

 

By the time Derek answers the door, everyone else is probably getting out of the showers. He can’t let himself think about it, about the possibility that he couldn’t cover it up well enough, that the room’ll smell like sex still. Like him and Rafa.

Derek looks like he’s just woken up, but he lets Stiles in.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?” he asks, rubbing his head like he’s trying to wake up. His nostrils flare a split-second later. “Oh. Okay, shower. _Please_. Just...go.” 

Stiles nods and watches Derek shake himself out for a second before heading to the bathroom.

“ _Use the towel on the back of the door_ ,” Derek calls after him. “ _And use the fucking soap. That’s not going to just rinse off_.”

That’s unnecessary because Stiles fucking know that, okay? He’s not stupid. And even if he didn’t know that, he wants Rafa off him ASAP, so he would’ve used soap anyway. 

He’s _thorough_ , too. Which makes him feel fucking weird, honestly, and a tiny bit horny. Because he ends up essentially fingering himself in Derek’s shower. And that’s a weird thing. A necessary thing, but a weird one. 

Also, he may or may not use Derek’s loufa. Because just using his hands isn’t going to do much. He needs to _exfoliate_. Derek will never know, anyway. Or he might, but worst case scenario, Stiles will buy him another fucking loufa. 

When he gets out, he looks at his clothes and decides not to touch them. They probably _reek_ of sex and Rafa. Considering that there’s two people’s jizz on them, probably a good idea to avoid them. He’s got other clothes in his bag, anyway. School clothes. In his bag. Which is by the front door.

So he goes out in Derek’s towel. It’s not like it matters, anyway. Derek’s body is perfection no matter what and there’s no reason to be ashamed that he doesn’t quite measure up to a Greco-Roman ideal. 

Derek’s sitting on a bean bag chair in pajama pants and a white tank top with a cup of coffee in his hand. He looks _at home_ for a moment. It makes Stiles feel bad for interrupting his morning. Here he is, dragging Derek into his shitty decisions. Waking him up for it, even. It’s a jerk move. 

“There’s more coffee in the pot if you want it,” Derek says.

“I should get dressed.”

Derek looks up at him. “Wait a minute.” He gets up, sets his coffee down on the table, and clears the feet of space between them. His eyes don’t meet Stiles but move around his body instead. Not in a creepy way, just like he’s checking him. For injuries or something. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles tells him.

Derek doesn’t say anything, but his fingers trace the mark on his shoulder and the bruises on his hips. 

“It was quick, anyway. He didn’t have time for much.” He doesn’t want to explain what he means by _much_ , but Derek doesn’t ask anyway. 

“Are you planning on going to school today?” Stiles nods. “I need to cover up his scent, then. You’d have to take a few more showers before you got it all off. Masking it is easier. Faster.”

“How much faster?” Stiles asks, shifting his weight. 

“You’re missing first period no matter what,” Derek tells him. “And you’ll probably spend the rest of the day answering questions.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’ll come up with a story of what he ‘asked’ me.”

“Not about that, about...if you smell like me enough to cover him up, it’ll be— There’s not a lot of ways you can come to smell that much like another person.” Derek looks at the floor somewhere to the side of Stiles’ shoulder, his hands at his sides.

“Oh.” Stiles looks away, too, trying not to sound excited. “I mean, if that’s _necessary_. I gotta say, I think Rafa kind of wore me out earlier, but, uh—”

Derek’s eyes are wide and he’s shaking his head. “That’s _not_ what I meant. I wasn’t— Do you _really_ think I’d use this to get into your pants? Is that really what you think of me?”

“What? No. I just thought, you know. You said there were only _so many_ ways. I thought you meant we’d have to, uh, bump uglies to get the job done.”

“I meant that other werewolves might think we _had_ ,” Derek says slowly. “Not that we _should_. That’s _not_ happening.”

“Hey, I thought it was weird. So.” He looks around, says, “Anyway. If there’s _only so many ways_ , what, exactly, do we have to do?”

Derek shrugs. “Physical contact.”

“What _kind_? Like, I’m guessing a fist bump wouldn’t cut it,” Stiles says. 

“You know, the—” Derek cuts off, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs heavily. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Well, you’re kind of going to have to, dude. Because I’m going in all sorts of weird directions with it, and I’m pretty sure you’d be offended by most of the stuff I’ve come up with.” One of them involves Derek jizzing all over him, so that’s pretty likely. Unless it’s what he means. But it’s probably not. Probably.

“The _c_ - _word_ ,” Derek says, waving a hand as if that clarifies it. 

“What, chimichanga? Chanukkah? Come? You gotta be more specific there, big guy, because you are _not_ getting bodily fluids on me.”

Derek’s face twists. “What? No, that’s— I mean…” he sighs, gives Stiles a look. “I hate you, you know that? You’re doing this on purpose.” Stiles laughs so hard he almost doesn’t hear Derek say  _cuddling_. And then he laughs harder.

“You can’t say _cuddle_? Come _on_ , dude!”

“I can _say_ it,” Derek tells him with a sharp look, “I just don’t want to do it with you.” 

Oh. Well. 

That makes sense. 

“Should I go? Yeah, I should go.” He spots his back and heads to it, stops when Derek holds out a hand.

“Don’t go. I said I’d help you and I _will_. You just always make a big deal of things. If you can just _shut your mouth_ and not make any stupid jokes, then it’ll be fine. Okay?”

Stiles nods. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just come here,” Derek says, waving him over with an impatient hand. Stiles goes to him and stands there, watching Derek’s eyes lock onto his shoulder. “Can I…?” He nods at the hickey, and Stiles isn’t really sure what he means to do about it until Derek’s mouth seals over it. 

“ _Jesus_ , dude, give a guy a little more warning,” Stiles tells him, thankful that Derek can’t see his eyes practically rolling back into his head at the feeling of his tongue. Almost as sudden, Derek draws back with a little _pop_ of suction. 

“If it was mine...spit, I mean,” Derek says. “It should have my spit on it. That’s all.”

Stiles nods, eyes a little wide. “You don’t, uh, have to put your mouth everywhere his was, do you? Because that might get a little….”

“Where?” Derek asks, eyes flicking down. Stiles shakes his head, just a little, and glances over his shoulder. “I don’t think anyone’s going to be sniffing around that much.”

“I mean, _I_ wouldn’t, but, you know.”

“Yeah.” Derek nods, not looking at him. “I didn’t know he...you know.”

Stiles shrugs. “He does a lot of things.” 

He doesn’t want to talk about it, really. It feels like a weird thing for them to talk about. Like they shouldn’t. Probably ever. 

“We should probably just get the cuddling over with, huh?” Stiles asks, trying to change the subject.

“Good idea,” Derek says quickly. “Couch?” 

They both sit down and it’s _super_ weird for a minute. Because it’s a weird thing to do. Not that they haven’t, like, been forced to touch each other like that. But it’s different when they’re doing it intentionally. 

“Fuck it,” Stiles says, elbowing Derek in the ribs. “Get up. We’re just going to go for it. We’re gonna do this all the way. And I hope you know that you’re only going to get to be the big spoon this once. I have to assert my spoon dominance.”

When Derek gets up, suspiciously quiet, Stiles lays down and scoots so he’s facing the back of the couch. He holds the towel very much in place. After a second, Derek settles down next to him. He jerks away, at first, when they touch accidentally, then moves in against Stiles’ back. 

And then their arms are at their sides and they’re laying there and staring forwards and Stiles is pretty sure it’s the most awkward thing of his life. And for no reason. He and Scott have totally spooned before. Bros spoon. Sometimes they don’t really talk about it, but they do. 

“Howabout this?” Stiles asks, finding Derek’s wrist and using it to pull Derek’s arm over his middle. “We pledge a vow of silence. And you do what you need to do to get your scent all over me. We good?”

“Okay,” Derek says, and a second later, his arm tightens, pulling Stiles in tight against his chest. His breath hits Stiles’ shoulder because he’s a bit lower, and his arm is more over Stiles’ stomach than his ribs. He’s warm, though, and really fucking comfortable, actually. Stiles settles into him and lets his eyes fall shut. It was an early morning. And he’d had to be athletic. He’s _earned_ a nap. And Derek is comfy enough to make it possible. 

He catches the rhythm of Derek’s breath and slows his own down until they’re in sync. Derek’s forehead tucks in against the nape of his neck, and it’s not long until Stiles is drifting. Peaceful enough to feel time stretch, but not really asleep enough to dream, thank God. 

 

When he pushes himself back into full consciousness, he knows it hasn’t been too long. He’s not ready to get up yet, but they should soon. Either way, he’s too comfortable to move much. Just scoots into Derek more, sinks against him so the curves of their knees match up. Derek moves into him, warm and perfect, and they totally need to make cuddling a regular thing. Because it’s _good_. 

They should probably do his front, though. Just for safe measure. So he tries to flip over, but he feels skin on skin where the towel slipped down, Derek’s stomach and waistband against his ass, and _that_ ’s kind of nice. In a very inappropriate way. But hey, he’s not _awake_ -awake, right? And he’s not really _grinding_ against Derek, just _adjusting_. He wouldn’t. That would be—

 _Is that a boner_. 

He stills, remembering that technically, Derek arranged them so that Stiles wouldn’t be anywhere near in contact with his dick region at all. That could be for a million reasons, but Stiles wiggles a little and _yep_. Those sweat pants aren’t hiding a thing, god _damn_. 

He can’t be super obvious about it, can’t really get a feel for him without it being pretty clear what he’s doing. And he’s not really sure if Derek’s asleep. It would certainly explain the situation in his pants if he was. More than certainly. He’s probably dreaming about someone super hot. Not someone who’s only attractive to his best friend’s dad. 

Whatever. He’s going to leave that thought and Derek’s not-Stiles-caused boner alone. Maybe he’ll go back to sleep. Yeah, just a quick, ten-minute nap. 

Alright, so it’s fundamental human nature to poke at things with sticks, so it’s really not his fault that he can’t stop thinking about it. Because what if it _is_ Stiles-caused? And, more importantly, what are the specific qualities of Derek’s boner? What is it like? Stiles isn’t _on it_ -on it so he can’t get a feel for size or if it’s a half-chub kind of situation. 

The next time he moves is purely for fact-finding purposes. It gets it lined up in a nice way, though, so if that’s what he was trying to do, he might be able to get Derek off like this. But that’s not what he’s doing. He just wants to get to know it a little. After all, this is a somewhat mystical penis. It’s apparently an evil bitch magnet, so maybe there’s something—

“I’m going to punch you in the head,” Derek says very quietly and very quickly. “It’s a natural, physiological reaction, and you’re not helping.” 

Stiles smirks at the back of the couch, if only because Derek can’t see him and smack him for it. “You know, if it helps—”

“Don’t finish that thought. Don’t even _think_ it.”

“I was just gonna—” Derek’s hand comes up and covers his mouth and really, Stiles has Rafa to blame for his reaction. Fuck. 

Derek’s hand is over his mouth and Derek’s breathing against the back of his neck and it sounds _loud_ so close and his dick is still pressing against Stiles' ass with only a single layer between them and there’s _no_ way Derek can’t smell what this is doing to him. His dick twitches against the soft towel in a way that’s a little too good, and it's about to get ugly.

And then Derek releases him. All the way, actually, because he’s not on the couch anymore. Stiles twists to see what he’s doing without showing him the route to Boner City, population: maybe two. Derek’s got his back to him. It’s a nice back, and Stiles needs to _stop_ , but Derek’s got his hands on his hips and his head down, breathing. 

Is he _talking_ to his boner?

Everyone does it sometime. It’s not that weird.

Derek might not be that weird, though. It's hard to tell, really.

But Derek relaxes, shakes his shoulders out, and turns around, boner-free. “You should get dressed. You have other clothes, right? The others...I’ll wash them for you. You don’t want to have those with you.”

“Okay. Cool,” Stiles says because he has no idea what else to say. “Just give me a minute.” Derek nods, and Stiles can’t stop himself, says, “So about just now—”

“I’m no longer on the couch. The vow of silence is in effect and we’re _not_ talking about it.” Derek shrugs like that’s all there is to it, and maybe it is. “Do you want coffee?”

“I’m good. Haven’t taken my Adderall yet, so there’s no point.” 

He thinks about Scott walking in on him with Rafa, really _pictures_ it, and his dick goes soft pretty quick. So he can get up and get his clothes, and, when he sees that Derek’s completely facing the other way, get dressed. 

When he’s all done, he finds Derek leaning against his counter, coffee mug in hand. He waves Stiles over so he can stick a hand under his own shirt and rub the material all over Stiles’ front. 

“There you go,” he says before taking a sip. “By the way, I think we both know you owe me brownies.”

Stiles smirks. “Sorry, they’re boyfriend-only brownies. I don’t make the rules.”

“Everyone but us is going to _think_ I’m your boyfriend, which is _almost_ as bad so I expect my brownies within the week. It’s only fair.”

“In that case, I’ll give you a dish of brownies in front of everyone and take them away when they leave,” Stiles says. “How’s that for fair?” 

Derek gives him a withering look for a moment before flicking him on the nose. “Get to school, loser.”

“ _You_ ’re the loser,” Stiles tells him. “Using poor, defenseless teenagers for their brownies.” That strikes a nerve and Stiles wants to punch himself in the face for killing what they had going. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I wouldn’t. Sorry.”

It doesn’t help, though, because Derek just looks like he feels like shit even _more_.

“I’m a jerk, okay? I’ll bake you some goddamn brownies to make up for it.”

Derek _grins_ , and Stiles whaps him in the shoulder.

“You’re _unbelievable_ ,” he says. “I felt bad and everything, you asshole.”

“I like them with chocolate chips,” Derek says, still smiling as he raises his mug and takes another sip.

Stiles snorts. “I’ll bring you fucking _Cosmic Brownies_. Taste the disappointment, fucker.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you trying to imply that Cosmic Brownies are _bad_? Because if you are, the door’s over there,” he says, gesturing with his coffee hand. “We don’t do that in this house.”

“Seriously? You should get a sign to let people know how lame you are. _Thou shalt not dishonor Little Debbie’s snack cakes_. Big black letters with little rainbow polkadots.” 

“I feel so _bad_ for you,” Derek says, and for a weird second, Stiles wonders if he’s said that to anyone since he was a teenager. “Now stop stalling. Go to school. I can’t _wait_ for Scott to yell at me for keeping you.”

“I can’t wait either,” Stiles says with a smirk. “He’s going to yell at you _all the time_ now. It’s going to be great.”

Derek gives him a look. “I hate you. Get out,” he says with almost no inflection. “And I’m completely serious about the brownies. Or I’ll tell your dad we’re dating.”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t really think he’d care, honestly. You’re not within five years of him. I think you’re good.”

“Stop it,” Derek tells him. “Don’t negate my threats. And _go_.” He points this time, and Stiles makes sure to roll his eyes at him before heading out.

 

“ _Dude_ ,” Scott says with something like horror when Stiles sits next to him in second period. Then, with something more like surprise or satisfaction, “ _Dude_.”

Stiles grins at him, wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Good job, man,” Scott tells him. “Don’t ever tell me any details _ever_ , but good job.”

“ _Yeah_ it was,” Stiles says with leer, and that’s enough to freak Scott out. To get him to never want to ask anything about it again. It’s easier that way. 

While he’s pretending to pay attention to their math teacher, he finds himself thinking about getting a box of Cosmic Brownies and leaving it on Derek’s doorstep. And how Derek would totally smile when he saw them, the way he smiled this morning.

Maybe roadtrips are a good thing for Derek Hale’s psyche. He’s been...freer since coming back. Maybe Stiles will ask him about his trip. Maybe he won’t, in case that’ll jinx it. 

He’s got to be careful, though. Because he’s starting to like Derek. Well, he’s liked Derek for a while. But he’s at that point where he can see the road ahead and he can see a version of himself that’s in love with Derek. It’s a possibility. That Stiles could exist and maybe even be happy. Maybe. But it would be safer to not, to push it away before it takes ahold of him. 

There’s too much to worry about right now for it to be a good idea to add feelings for Derek into the mix. 

It could just be easy, though. He’s halfway there already without even trying. If he _lets_ it happen…. Derek already knows a lot of him. More than Rafa, probably. So it could be easy or it could be horrible. Because Derek knows things he can’t take back. He probably wouldn’t use it against Stiles, but if he _did_ , if he wanted to, then game over.

 

Wednesday night is the only time everyone’s schedules coordinate, so everyone ends up at Scott’s for what Stiles calls a Cub Scout Meeting. Kinda like that, but with more weapons. Though Melissa has everyone who can leave theirs at the door. There’s chips and dip and everyone looks about as uncomfortable as they could possibly be. 

Well, unless Peter caught wind of it and showed up. Or Rafa. 

Derek’s _super_ awkward when he gets there, a little after everyone else, and Stiles has to drag him inside to where everyone’s standing around the dining room table. 

His dad eyes Stiles’ hand around Derek’s wrist as he crunches on a chip but doesn’t say anything. He might later, but it doesn’t _really_ look like anything. Anyway, he’s got Lydia on his other side. So who knows what his dad thinks. 

Melissa comes into the room with a stressed-out look on her face. “Alright, so I _ordered_ pizza, and it should’ve been here ages ago, so I’m going to go see what’s up. Is everyone alright here? Scott will tell you where the drinks and bathrooms are.”

“Why don’t I go get the pizza, Mom?” Scott asks, squeezing Isaac’s shoulder as he moves around him. 

“What? No,” she says. “You’re the alpha, right? That would be silly. Do your thing. I’m fine. Might need an extra set of hands, though.”

Stiles’ dad lifts a hand, saying, “Well, I could—”

“You’re the law enforcement. Can’t have you gone,” she says quickly. “I’ll just take Stiles.” 

“ _No problemo,_ ” Stiles says, glancing between his dad, Scott, and Derek.

“Great! Let’s go!” 

He follows her out of the house and to her car. It _always_ , since forever, feels weird to be in the front seat with her driving. Like he should be in the back with Scott. It’s weird without Scott. 

Before she puts the keys in the ignition, she pulls out her phone and types something before passing it to him. 

**How far is out of range for them?**

He pauses, wondering what’s up, before erasing what she put and typing in **One mile in the city.** That’s enough to be safe, for sure. 

They drive for a little while, for long enough, more than a mile, for sure. They do, in fact, stop at a Papa John’s. But he gets the idea that she’s not really here for the pizza, so he doesn’t get out of the car. 

“I’ve been thinking long and hard about whether I should say something to you or not,” she says, “but I think after everything you’ve been through, you deserve to be aware. I know you like to know everything that’s going on. That’s all. I just—” she shakes her head, leaning into her hand “this is just something I never thought I’d have to tell you.”

“Are you dating my dad?” Stiles asks, hoping to spare her.

She jumps so hard she smacks her hand against the steering wheel audibly and has to shake it out. “Dammit, _no_ , I’m not dating your father. Why would you— Has he said anything?” Stiles smirks to himself for a moment because _wow_. Scott’s mom might totally be into his dad. This is their seventh grade dream come true. The twelve year old in him who tried to switch places with Scott without either of their parents noticing is jumping for joy. But if that’s not what this is, then what’s she talking about?

“I don’t know for sure, I just got kind of a vibe, you know?” he says. “But, uh, what were you talking about?” 

“It’s,” she says, pausing with a wince. “So, I heard from Scott that his father interrogated you the other day.”

There’s no question in it, none at all, but he answers, “Yes. Yes he did.”

“Right, okay, and that was...sorry, it’s just— Do you remember when we got divorced?” She looks _horribly_ uncomfortable right now, and he’s kind of starting to worry where this is going. A lot, actually.

“I mean, yeah. It was, like, seven years ago, maybe?”

She nods, presses her hand to her mouth for a second before saying, “I have some idea of what it was like from your perspective because I know what Scott thinks about it. He saw his father becoming angry and violent, and that’s true. I tried to keep it from you two because you _shouldn’t_ have to deal with that. You were so _young_. And I _told_ myself that I did a good job, that you never had any idea, but I couldn’t always be there. I tried not to leave you with him, but sometimes, I couldn’t—”

“He never hit us or anything,” Stiles says quickly. “We would’ve told someone if he had done anything.”

“I know,” she says, looking out the window. “Unless you felt you couldn’t.”

“I’m serious. He left the two of us alone,” he tells her, touching her arm like that’ll help her believe it.

“He wouldn’t have done anything to Scott,” she says firmly. “He always said he drew that line, but you...I tried to ask you when you were younger, but I don’t think you understood. But you’re older now. You know how much darkness people can hold inside of them, and I think you understand that no one deserves to be a target for that darkness.” She takes a deep breath and looks him in the eye. “Did he touch you?” 

Stiles pulls his hand back into his lap, feeling a little cold. “He didn’t do anything to me.” It doesn’t sound like a lie, but it doesn’t feel true either. But it’s not like he can explain it to her, not like he _should_. 

“You never did anything that made me really worry,” she tells him with something halfway to relief, “but I couldn’t be sure if you were hiding it. I didn’t think he’d go after you now, anyway. People like that tend to prefer a certain age, and you’ve grown up so much. But I needed to make you aware. If something doesn’t feel right, trust your instincts, okay? He’s not a good man.”

“Does Scott know?”

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t tell him. I don’t know how. And if something had happened with you, he would’ve blamed himself. You know how he is.”

“Yeah.” The fact that she _knows_ or at least knows some of it, that’s fucking terrifying. If she tells Scott, that’s going to be a problem, though. “Don’t tell Scott. I mean, do what you feel is right, he's your son and all, but he’s just got so much to worry about right now. I don’t want him to feel like he has to be my bodyguard or anything. I’ll be fine.” 

“You should have someone with you, just in case." She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "Derek looks pretty intimidating, doesn’t he?” 

He smirks. “That he does. That he does. I’ll keep him around.” 

“Good,” she says, “and maybe you can do something about his—” she frowns and gestures at her face “—you know. He always looks like he’s been sucking a lemon. I mean, I know the boy’s had a really hard time of it, but he needs a little light in his life.” 

“I’m working on it,” he tells her, then remembers that they're in a Papa John's parking lot and just kind of sitting there. “We should get the pizza probably.”

“It’s been waiting for a few minutes. I called for pickup instead of delivery. It was the only way I could think of to get you alone.” 

He smiles because he _does_ appreciate her looking out for him. “Does my dad have any idea?” he asks, wondering just how far it goes. 

She shakes her head. “Just me. I never had _proof_ , but sometimes, you just _know_.” 

“I totally understand,” he says. “Ask Scott about the kanima’s master. _Totally_ knew that guy was a douche.”

She laughs, rolls her eyes. “Get out of the car, you.”

It feels almost normal after that, but he can see it, lurking under the surface. Like when the light catches just right, it shows something beneath. It’s different from Derek knowing because he knew on Stiles’ terms. He knew _because_ of Stiles. Scott’s mom is unpredictable. It makes him nervous. 

Later, after everyone’s come to a weird sort of agreement about who’s Scott’s pack, who’s an omega, and the fact that Scott’ll let in _anyone_ who wants in (as long as they swear not to kill anyone), after everyone’s gone home, he texts Derek. 

**What happens if everyone finds out?**

After a moment, Derek’s reply comes. **Then they find out. Some will understand, some won’t, but the people who matter will. Eventually.**

He reads that and something about it makes him angry. The idea that there's a chance some people could hate him forever for it. Even though he was fifteen and two drinks in and _still_ doesn’t quite know how he got from point a to point b. Even though it wasn’t the first time Rafa looked at him and wanted him.

**It’s not my fault.**

After he sends it, he looks up at the ceiling of his room and starts to believe it, just a little.

**Author's Note:**

> gonna be more this weekend yoooo :)


End file.
